OK so I am literally terrible at writing explicit sex of any kind, but the massive angst kind of ran away with me. Perhaps someone else could pick up where this leaves off?
Don't look! she shouted, just before they threw her down and forced the gag between her teeth - so like the one forced on him after the ambush at Darkwater Crossing, but a thousand times more justified. Whatever wild rumors men repeat about Torygg's death, Ulfric cannot kill with his hands bound behind his back. Not without a convenient cliff nearby. Ulfric, don't loo--
You will watch, said the hatchet-faced Legate, not deigning to look at him as he roared and thrashed and dug bloody furrows in his wrists, twisting against the rope binding him to the tree. Or I will give her to the others when I'm through. A part of him thinks he deserves to see what his carelessness has wrought, but he knows torture. He knows the slim hold of defiance, the grim satisfaction afforded by bloodying one's mental fingertips on that jagged stone ledge, and he will not take that from her.
So he finds the diplomatic solution. (Naturally; he's such a clever politician. The high howling voice penned at the back of his skull gives a chuckle that sounds like a sob.) Ulfric stares straight ahead, at a point just above the two struggling bodies. He does not look away and he does not close his eyes - he barely blinks - but he lets them glaze over and goes very far away.
He goes to Elenwen. It's the most vivid memory he can conjure. The most vivid memory that is not precious, at any rate, that will not be irreparably marred by association with -- no. Don't look. The smell of his own blood rotting where it has spilled on the dungeon floor, that she-daedra of an elf crooning in his ear. Helplessness. Choking down his cries until his resolve gives out and he keens and begs and blubbers, shame, helplessness, gods--
No. Go to Elenwen. It's a well-trodden path in his mind, a dark door he keeps carefully locked. Except on those occasions when it drifts open during the night. They are rare, now, near thirty years later, but he is practiced at finding that entrance in the dark, groping for the latch and slipping through to safety; it is not hard to perform the process in reverse. It should not be hard to stay. Even when he wishes to escape it often takes an effort to wrench himself free, unless some sound jars him away. Ralof was screaming himself hoarse (cowards, COWARDS, faithless Imperial dogs, is there nothing too low for you?) until Galmar snarled shut up you fool; now the boy has fallen mercifully silent. There is another sound, a rhythmic meaty slap, but that is only the whip his torturers sometimes use, it must be. He can feel it. It flays him to the bone on every stroke.
They were careless, emboldened like green youths by recent victories, by the presence of not one but two Tongues. The future king, the slayer of Alduin. Who could touch them? Their acquisition of Markarth at the peace conference afforded diplomatic opportunities not to be wasted - Hammerfell was always the most natural ally for their cause, and so Ulfric rode to meet the envoy at the border, though it meant crossing through Imperial-controlled Falkreath. The honor guard was handpicked, but small. Speed and secrecy would serve better than brute strength. They made it safely to the Reach, but they did not make it safely back.
When the rest of them were overwhelmed - most of the men slain, Ralof wounded, Galmar bodily restrained by four big legionnaires and cursing viciously, Ulfric disarmed and breathless and in the process of having his jaw pried open lest he recover his ability to Shout before they could gag him - his Dragonborn stood alone, savage and beautiful, eyes darting between her companions. Clearly trying to work out a method of freeing them all. She was vastly outnumbered, but none of the soldiers would approach her. For half a beat the stalemate wavered.
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timeasmymeasure
Defiance 1/?
Date: 2013-06-24 04:07 am (UTC)Don't look! she shouted, just before they threw her down and forced the gag between her teeth - so like the one forced on him after the ambush at Darkwater Crossing, but a thousand times more justified. Whatever wild rumors men repeat about Torygg's death, Ulfric cannot kill with his hands bound behind his back. Not without a convenient cliff nearby. Ulfric, don't loo--
You will watch, said the hatchet-faced Legate, not deigning to look at him as he roared and thrashed and dug bloody furrows in his wrists, twisting against the rope binding him to the tree. Or I will give her to the others when I'm through. A part of him thinks he deserves to see what his carelessness has wrought, but he knows torture. He knows the slim hold of defiance, the grim satisfaction afforded by bloodying one's mental fingertips on that jagged stone ledge, and he will not take that from her.
So he finds the diplomatic solution. (Naturally; he's such a clever politician. The high howling voice penned at the back of his skull gives a chuckle that sounds like a sob.) Ulfric stares straight ahead, at a point just above the two struggling bodies. He does not look away and he does not close his eyes - he barely blinks - but he lets them glaze over and goes very far away.
He goes to Elenwen. It's the most vivid memory he can conjure. The most vivid memory that is not precious, at any rate, that will not be irreparably marred by association with -- no. Don't look. The smell of his own blood rotting where it has spilled on the dungeon floor, that she-daedra of an elf crooning in his ear. Helplessness. Choking down his cries until his resolve gives out and he keens and begs and blubbers, shame, helplessness, gods--
No. Go to Elenwen. It's a well-trodden path in his mind, a dark door he keeps carefully locked. Except on those occasions when it drifts open during the night. They are rare, now, near thirty years later, but he is practiced at finding that entrance in the dark, groping for the latch and slipping through to safety; it is not hard to perform the process in reverse. It should not be hard to stay. Even when he wishes to escape it often takes an effort to wrench himself free, unless some sound jars him away. Ralof was screaming himself hoarse (cowards, COWARDS, faithless Imperial dogs, is there nothing too low for you?) until Galmar snarled shut up you fool; now the boy has fallen mercifully silent. There is another sound, a rhythmic meaty slap, but that is only the whip his torturers sometimes use, it must be. He can feel it. It flays him to the bone on every stroke.
They were careless, emboldened like green youths by recent victories, by the presence of not one but two Tongues. The future king, the slayer of Alduin. Who could touch them? Their acquisition of Markarth at the peace conference afforded diplomatic opportunities not to be wasted - Hammerfell was always the most natural ally for their cause, and so Ulfric rode to meet the envoy at the border, though it meant crossing through Imperial-controlled Falkreath. The honor guard was handpicked, but small. Speed and secrecy would serve better than brute strength. They made it safely to the Reach, but they did not make it safely back.
When the rest of them were overwhelmed - most of the men slain, Ralof wounded, Galmar bodily restrained by four big legionnaires and cursing viciously, Ulfric disarmed and breathless and in the process of having his jaw pried open lest he recover his ability to Shout before they could gag him - his Dragonborn stood alone, savage and beautiful, eyes darting between her companions. Clearly trying to work out a method of freeing them all. She was vastly outnumbered, but none of the soldiers would approach her. For half a beat the stalemate wavered.